


The Age of Miracles

by hertie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Butch/Femme, Drug Use, F/F, Femlock, Mental Health Issues, Period-Typical Homophobia, References to Depression, Sex Work, WIP, but I know where it's going and how it's going to end, gender swap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-27 01:13:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6263650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hertie/pseuds/hertie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's January 1953, and John is spending the night at Violet's, a gay bar. Her usual routine (drinking beer, chatting up femmes, playing billiards with mates Mike and Billy) is interrupted by a stranger who seems to be able to read through John's very soul. They share a dance, and a bed, and soon enough John is ready to share her life with this person. The problem is that there might be too much darkness inside John's beloved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Age of Miracles

**Author's Note:**

> I feel a little self-conscious posting a WIP but the thing is, I need your help. 
> 
> This fic is one of the first things I came up with after joining Sherlock fandom and it has been in my drafts for ages.  
> I have written most of it and know very well how it's going to end, but what I feel uncertain about is that whether this kind of a story is interesting to anyone. 
> 
> So please, let me know if you want to read it - your feedback will be my best motivation to complete it.

 “Nothing ever happens to me,” thought John Watson, taking a sip of Fuller’s.

 The night was going on just fine. John’s mate Billy just finished telling a cracking story of how she had just visited a cousin in Belfast, who was going through a feverishly religious phase. Said cousin took Billy on a tour of all the churches and even a couple of nunneries in the area, and they ended up in that nunnery where that one nun - a sweet little bird -  was giving Billy all the looks, and she followed her into the garden, where Billy got under the nun's skirts, and oh wasn't she eager! Even tried to return the favor, so Billy had to explain the butch code of honour to her. But still, such a lovely creature, that nun.

“Seriously, fellows,” Billy boasted, “if that’s how they got things set up in every nunnery out there I might reconsider my relationship with the holy church.”

Everyone burst out laughing. John laughed too, even though she felt just a tad jealous. Tall and handsome, Billy always looked so dashing in her motorbike jacket and army boots, all shiny and smooth leather. No wonder even straight girls would be into her. Even nuns, for heaven’s sake, no pun intended. The last thought made John chuckle silently. Oh these handsome butches. John could never include herself in the category, and the realization was weighing on her, perhaps a little more than it should have. 

Although, on a quiet Wednesday night in January, there would not be much action happening at Violet's anyway.

Not that it was helping. 

“Oh, come on,” John whispered to herself, “it really is not the right time for a self-pity party.”

Her friends were giggling merrily about Billy’s amorous adventures, and John shrugged hard feelings off, mentally, and invited Billy and Mike to play billiards. Still better than just ogling femmes without any chances, eh?

The game of billiards proved once again it was not John Watson’s night: she lost to both Mike and Billy rather miserably. 

“S’ alright,” she was thinking, handing Billy some cash, “tomorrow’s a payday.”

Then this girl walked right past them.

It is not that John spent every night at Violet's and yet she considered herself a regular, and, as a regular, she could not recall ever seeing the girl before. 

First of, the coat she was wearing probably cost more than what John would make in a month. Second, the way she walked - fast and free, as if she owned the world around her but did not really care about it much. Third, her look of uttermost absence - sitting down at the bar, the girl refused a drink with a slight shake of her head, when Mo the bartender approached her. And, shockingly, Mo just nodded and went back to the other end of the bar. The girl remained seated, absently staring at the rows of bottles as the reflections of the Violet's patrons danced in the deep green glass. 

Oddly, John found herself unable to take her eyes off the stranger.

And why would she, really? The girl looked mysterious and otherworldly in that long dark grey coat, with a blue scarf wrapped somewhat carelessly over her neck, her hair a bob of thick dark curls with a bold fringe from underneath which a gaze as sharp as a medical scalpel peered through. She wore almost no make up save for the rouge on pale cheeks and a bright red lipstick - betraying her trade rather unexpectedly because otherwise she was nothing like other femmes at the bar.

John felt her friend’s gaze: Mike was watching her rather carefully.

“I’ve met her before,” she said, lighting up a fag.

“She is a classy number, I’m telling you. Comes here every once in a while, sits down at the bar, has a drink or two, would not accept it from any butch here, actually, but might go for a dance. I tried approaching her once, she just looked at me as if I was some sort of a curio, really. Her eyes were running me up and down, and then she said the craziest thing, something like ‘you’d better hurry up home right now, because your old man has had too much to drink again, and tonight he’s definitely going to choke your mum to death if you don’t stop him.’ And you know about my old folks, right? And that their troubles is not the kind of a story I usually volunteer to strangers? So how on earth would she know about them, dad's drinking and all? I was going to ask her that but she just looked at me one more time and said she was being serious and thought I cared about my mother but if she was wrong and I actually didn’t, then of course we could dance… I ran home just in time to find dad with his hands around mum’s neck. That time coppers finally took it seriously and locked him up. Guess I should come to her and say thank you or something like that, but honesty she creeps me out. So no, I'm gonna pass, even though she’s dishy as hell.”

“Yes, this bird is a hot thing, no questions about that.” Billy leaned against the billiard table, eying the girl shamelessly.

“I bet she’s all legs under that coat, too bad she seems not keen to take it off. Perhaps, I could ask her to do so… Or you know what?” She suddenly gave John a sharp, challenging look. “Maybe Johnny could do this?”

Before John could answer, Mike tried to wave it all off.

“Come along, Billy, haven’t you just heard what I told you? The bird won’t even take a drink from a butch here, and she’s got like a head above poor Johnny. Do you really want to see your buddy humiliated like that?”

This remark did not make matters any better, and, as anger crept up her cheeks, colouring them crimson, John opened her mouth, trying to come up with a witty response, and fighting off the impulse to push Billy onto the floor.

“You are picking at me because you yourself haven’t got the guts to ask her out. You are just trying to distract us from seeing it.”

“Oh no, I am being entirely serious now, our Johnny is so handsome despite being short! It’s a shame most femmes don’t understand it yet. And it makes her oh so miserable and self-conscious.”

John could almost see the evil sparkles dance in Billy’s eyes. “Although you are probably right, Micky, I bet a quid John won’t even be able to talk to her.”

Good God, Billy can be such a tosser sometimes.

“Oh you better have your cash ready,” John said, determined so much so she had to forcefully ignore the icky feeling itching down in her stomach. She is tougher than that. Of course she could ask the girl out. This is exactly what she was going to do.

Having put the most nonchalant expression that had ever been attempted at Violet's, John walked over to the bar and took the seat next to the brunette who turned her head towards John, giving her a mildly curious look.

John tried a handsome smile. “Hi. Care for a vogue and a drink?”

The girl kept staring right at her, grey eyes as deep as London fog in the morning.

“How generous of you, stranger. I’ll take the vogue, thank you.”

“My name is John.” John pulled the cigarette case from her trousers. Before she had a chance to offer her a cigarette, the girl picked the case from her hands, quickly turning it over a few times with long and thin fingers, squinting at it, and finally pulling a cigarette out. John lit it with a matchstick. Blowing the smoke out, the girl was still peering at her, eyes searching all over John’s face.

Mo returned, intent to get the two of them some drinks. Whatever Mike said, doesn't matter, John thought, going at least to try and buy the girl a cocktail.

As if having read John’s thoughts, the girl turned to Mo. “A vera on the rocks for me and some light beer for this cute butch here, since unlike her brother, she is not fond of hard liquor.”

“How did you?…” John suddenly found herself short of breath.

“Oh, easy. You obviously don’t approve of his behaviour, and who would? Given how he treats his poor wife who you like so much.”

 It was as if the bar and the nancy boys and the background chatter all faded into a complete silence, and there was nothing and no one around except for this stranger with cold mesmerizing eyes, staring at her, a cigarette between scarlet lips. Their drinks appeared most likely out of nowhere, and John grabbed onto the cold glass of ale as if was a lifesaver. Resting the fag on the edge of the ashtray and taking a sip of gin, the girl continued, speaking fast and yet impeccably clear.

“I take it, you have questions. The cigarette case. Always tells it all about the owner. Yours has quite a story.

“First, it costs a fortune. Nothing about your clothes says you have got any money to spare, certainly not on an expensive toy like this silver case. So it’s a gift. But it was not intended for you, John. It has the engraving: ‘To dear Harry from Clara.’ Obviously a wedding anniversary gift. Even if the name you just gave me was a fake, I reckon you are not married.”

She glanced at her, expecting to be interrupted, but John remained silent, so the girl kept on going.

“Who is Harry? Who is Clara? Harry must be someone close to you, most likely a relative, not a friend, for you wouldn’t take a gift this expensive even from the closest friend. So a relative then. Why brother? Despite all the scuffs and scratch marks, the case is not that old, and this little ornament around the edges was quite fashionable just last Spring, so it must have belonged to someone who keeps up to date with such things, and I find it hard to imagine that your father would be that kind of a person… Am I right so far?”

Astonished, John nodded. That seemed to have had an encouraging effect on her strange acquaintance, for she continued with even more speed and enthusiasm.

“Splendid. Now, what was I saying about the scratches and scuffs? There are many. The case had been dropped on the floor and carried in a pocket along with coins and key chains time and again. For someone with shaking hands and memory short and shadowed by too much alcohol, that would not be all that rare to slip the case past the pocket, to drop it when pulling it out, to forget not to carry it around in the same pocket where his keys and change are… You see, this is obvious. So he is a drunk. Is that why his wife is so unhappy? Must be hard on her. She tried to make it up to him, persuading, probably, to give abstinence another go, precisely last year, and the case was meant to be the reconciliation gesture, wasn’t it? But it did not work out, and I am not surprised here, addictions are hard to fight. Yet this is not why you hate him so much. Yes you do, for all the torment he caused his wife, who you like perhaps a little too much than a sister in law should… Not only he keeps drinking hard even though he knows what it does to her, he does not care for her much at all, nor for her gifts. He gave the case to you, for instance. And while you might allow yourself to accept the thing your brother doesn’t want to keep anymore you won’t take more substantial help from him, even though you might be in need. The most interesting question, then, is why you still keep the case, why not just take the bloody thing to the pawn shop and make some money off it? Also, given you don’t really smoke.”

“How do you?…” was all John could muster.

“The vogues, darling.” The girl took hers back from the ashtray and smelled it.

“RTC Special Gold. Royal Tobacco Company went bankrupt soon after the West Indies gained independence. So this particular type is no longer available even from the finest shops in London. Last time I was able to procure some was two years ago. Again, what makes you keep both cigarettes and the case if you don’t smoke and hate your brother? Will you tell me or do you want me to tell you?”

The girl was almost grinning at John who was absolutely stunned, and yet there was no malice on her pale face, even when she spoke again.

“Well, I think you believe it helps you pick up girls.”

John felt blushing coming up her neck. Fiddling with the nearly full case, her acquaintance continued in the same calm fashion.

“Judging from the number and the age of the cigarettes, perhaps it was not such a valid hypothesis of yours. Or would you rather me think most of your bijous were not vogueresses? No, it's the former: I am afraid there were not that many. Which is a shame, for as for me, you’re quite a looker. WRAC service and all.” Seemingly oblivious to the effect her monologue had just had on John, the girl finished.

“This. Was. Amazing.” John whispered.

The girl looked surprised at these words. The jukebox started to play  _Two Lonely People_. Something bright sparked in her eyes.

“Um, that’s not what people usually say. Care to dance? I happen to take quite a liking in this sentimental little song.”

John looked around, making sure no one of her friends noticed that this fluff had just invited her for a dance. Billy and Mike were busy flirting with a pair of factory girls, Mo was chatting with three aging nances across the bar, so no one witnessed John’s embarrassment. She got up and gave the girl her hand. The girl stepped off the bar chair slowly, turning out to be quite taller than John.

“Oh, this is not going to end well,” John thought, but proceeded to dance anyway, putting her hands around the girl’s thin shoulders.

“So what do people usually say?” 

**Author's Note:**

> John, Sherlock, and pretty much everybody around converse in Polari - a coded language used by gays and actors in the mid-century Britain. Here's a short dictionary:  
> vera - gin  
> vogue - a cigarette  
> vogueress - a female smoker  
> bijou - beloved, a sweetheart
> 
> There will be more to come!
> 
> Also, it was not uncommon for the 1950s lesbians to adhere to strict gender roles, at least in public, so much so a woman not identifying with either butch or femme might have a hard time finding a partner. Even more, butch/femme division came with a set or rules: for instance, a butch would not allow a femme to reciprocate in a sex act or to take any sort of initiative (in hardcore cases). As you see, John tries to play by the book but only halfheartedly, and Sherlock does not give a fuck at all.


End file.
